‘You were still drunk, Mum,’ Sennen tutted. ‘He told me on Thursday night he couldn’t cope with me moping about Dad. So, I stormed off. Luckily, I was at a wedding I’d planned yesterday and had budgeted for a hotel. But I got to the room and couldn’t bear to be on my own, so I drove straight to you.’

  ‘Oh, baby girl.’ Rita felt her pain as her daughter went on.

  ‘He also said that maybe I’d moved in with him too soon. I mean, we’re twenty-three, not eighteen!’

  ‘That’s still quite young,’ Kelly offered.

  Rita glared at her friend, who, under her breath, said, ‘Oops. Not now, OK.’ Kelly pretended to zip her mouth shut.

  ‘I mean, let’s give grief an expiry date, shall we?’ Sennen bashed her hand down on the draining board, then burst into ugly snotty tears. ‘It’s not fair. I miss Dad so much.’

  ‘Oh, darling. It’s so awful, I know, but I’m here and you can stay as long as you want to. Come on, wipe your hands and let’s sit down. I’ll sort that later.’

  Sennen did as she was told. ‘Alex wasn’t always this horrible. He just… didn’t know how to deal with my emotions. With all this.’ She gestured down at herself, as if her grief were something she carried like a second skin.

  ‘Well, maybe he should’ve tried a little harder,’ Rita said, voice croaky from too much wine and too little sleep. ‘That’s what you do when you love someone. You don’t walk away just because it gets a bit dark and difficult.’

  Kelly felt she could speak up now. ‘Didn’t Marilyn Monroe say something like, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best”?’

  ‘Still not helping,’ Rita murmured.

  Sennen blew her nose loudly with the kitchen roll handed to her by her mother. ‘I have been a nightmare. I know it was like the old Sennen disappeared, but he didn’t want to make the effort to look for me.’ She started to cry again.

  Rita reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘You’re still in there, darling, and we see and hear you loud and clear.’ She then stood slowly. ‘Right. We need air. I’ve got a spare pair of wellies. Let’s walk off these hangovers and heartbreak, shall we? Kel, you coming?’

  ‘The only place I’m walking is back up those stairs to bed, and I’m staying there until lunchtime.’ Kelly took a bite from Rita’s sandwich.

  ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’ came Nigel’s raucous tones from the orchard.

  ‘And put a gag on that sodding bird while you’re at it,’ Kel groaned. ‘He woke me at six o’-bleeding-clock this morning.’

  Rita and Sennen exchanged a knowing smile as they pulled on their wellies.

  As Rita and Sennen reached the High Meadow, the sun came out. They approached the edge of the cliff and, at the sight of the expansive ocean below, Sennen started to run, arms outstretched towards the majestic old sycamore tree.

  ‘Come on, Mum, let’s sit under the Singing Tree like we used to when me and Thom were little.’

  Rita threw down her mac, and two generations of Jory women sat side by side at its base, where the roots bulged and twisted like legs poking through the ground. The soil beneath the tree was soft and cool. Above them, the sycamore’s fresh spring leaves shimmered in the light, each one the size of Rita’s palm.

  ‘Your dad used to leave me little love notes in this tree, you know. When we first got together and even when you two were babies. Following that on every wedding anniversary.’ Sennen was wide eyed. ‘It felt such a treat for me to come up here and see what he’d hidden.’ Rita made a funny whining noise. ‘He knew it was my “healing space”.’

  ‘Oh my God, Mum, that’s adorable.’

  ‘I would quite often come up here when the weather was good to feed you both, to escape the monotony of the farmhouse. It was hard, having two of you to look after. I don’t think I’ve ever known tiredness like it. And this view gave me some head space.’

  They both took a minute in silence to look out over the wild, endless, and achingly breathtaking view. To take in the soothing cries of gulls and distant screeches of kids playing on the beach as they enjoyed the freedom of the Easter holidays. The horizon stretched wide and calm, with the pale sky gently kissing the now-shimmering sea.

  Rita sighed. ‘Your dad would be so busy, but he would always have time to show that he was here for me.’ She let out a little groan. ‘So many memories. You first crawled by this tree, then ran, then played…’

  ‘Who crawled first?’ Sennen asked quietly.

  ‘Thom.’ Rita shrugged.

  ‘Of course he bloody did!’ Sennen laughed.

  ‘But only a week before you.’ Rita’s voice lowered. ‘And then in what felt like the blink of an eye, it was time for you to run away from Seahaven Bay.’

  ‘I never ran far.’ Sennen grabbed her mum’s hand. ‘I love you, Mum.’

  Rita welled up. ‘I love you too, darling.’

  Sennen jumped up. ‘Show me where Dad hid the notes. I wanna see.’

  Rita smiled. ‘Down here.’ She leaned back against the trunk, fingertips grazing the bark. Just above root level was a small hollow, a natural little letterbox, hidden beneath a strip of peeling bark. He’d once covered her eyes with his hands and led her to it, one golden summer evening, the same summer they’d shared their first kiss. Inside had been a tiny note, folded small and sealed with a heart sticker. She still had it, tucked safely away in her memory box, along with all the others.

  In his crooked scrawl, it simply read: To the woman whose kiss ruined all the others.

  Short. Honest. Utterly him.

  Sennen jumped down and crouched beside the base of the tree. ‘Just imagine if we actually found a note in here,’ she said, grinning as she reached casually into the deep hollow. Nothing. Undeterred, she reached in deeper, more carefully this time, and let out a loud shriek as her fingers touched something. ‘Oh my God!’

  She pulled out a filthy, thin strip of paper, folded tight. Both women stared, mouths open like startled goldfish. Rita grabbed it from her, her hands shaking.

  ‘What does it say?’ Sennen whispered.

  Rita unfolded the paper slowly, her voice catching in her throat as she read aloud the words printed there: ‘Ask Stan. He knows everything.’

  Sennen stared at her, eyes wide. Then she smiled. ‘Grandad Brown always said the stories of our lives have already been written, didn’t he?’

  Rita couldn’t reply. She just nodded, holding the note like it might dissolve if she breathed too hard. ‘Not literally, though.’ Rita’s hands were shaking. ‘And your dad never used a printer.’

  ‘Well, whoever put it there, Mum, I mean, they knew it was somewhere you may look and find it.’

  Rita looked around, half expecting someone to appear from behind the gnarled trunk. Who would leave a message here, in this quiet, hidden spot? Was it a random kindness, or something more? A secret admirer? A warning? Her mind spun with questions, none with answers yet. Who even knew that Archie used to leave her notes?

  ‘Grandad was always right, though, wasn’t he?’ Sennen was oblivious to Rita’s inner turmoil.

  Rita’s thoughts drifted to her dear old dad, who had passed away just five years earlier from cancer. Her parents had had her late in life, after years of trying; her mum, a twin herself, had fallen pregnant at forty-four and along came Rita Joan Brown. She never remembered a single cross word between them, not with each other, and certainly not with her.

  Her mum had died six months to the day after her father, on the very same day as her auntie Jane, her mum’s twin sister. Rita was still convinced it hadn’t been coincidence, but broken hearts that had carried them both away.

  ‘Mum, are you listening to me?’ Sennen said moodily.

  ‘Yes, yes, darling, of course. Grandad was quite often right, yes.’

  Sennen was looking around her at the view. ‘Thinking on it, it’s perfect up here for your retreat idea. Guests can come and sit and meditate in the shade. Listen,’ Sennen whispered as a blackbird’s song rang out, clear and mellow, a rich, flute-like melody that drifted through the morning air. A thread of breeze caused the branches to sway and creak.

  ‘The tree really does sing, doesn’t it?’ Rita smiled broadly.

  ‘It does.’ Sennen smiled back. ‘So how about this for your marketing stuff? We could maybe put a little sign up here too.’ Still standing, Sennen dramatically announced, ‘The Singing Tree – a place to sit and listen. A quiet sanctuary for you to meditate, to read, to write, or just to be at one with nature.’

  ‘Imagine how lovely wind chimes would sound under here too,’ Rita added breezily, despite still reeling from the note.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Mum; the whole idea is such an inspiring one.’

  Rita felt a rush of pride surge through her dark thoughts. ‘And one I’d better get a move on with. It’ll be May soon.’

  ‘Could you be ready for guests to arrive in July, do you think? At least the weather should be milder by then.’ Sennen moved out to the edge of the tree and put her face to the sun.

  Rita nodded. ‘I think so, yes. I’m ready to go with the marketing stuff. I’ve set up an Instagram account and created a basic website. People can pay me via PayPal to keep it safe and simple. I just need to add a few classes, but we can do that as a top line without any detail for now. We need to discuss prices and of course offer an introductory discount, even though I will ensure the money is right for what I need. I’ve even sketched out a retreat map so people don’t get lost but I keep adding areas so it’s not final yet.’

  ‘Go, Mum!’ Sennen beamed, genuinely impressed. ‘You’ve done loads already. And what about putting up the yurts? Have you thought about when that’ll happen?’

  ‘I’ll work it out.’ Rita felt in control. ‘They haven’t even arrived yet. They’re being delivered, along with the mattresses at the weekend.’

  Rita had used the majority of Hilda’s money and had taken the risk of maxing out another credit card to keep her dream alive.

  ‘We need some kind of shelter around the compost toilets, plus I’ve yet to give the outbuilding loo and shower a proper clean-up. Once I’ve titivated the barn, we’re nearly there. Thankfully, I’ve got Zenya on board, whom you must meet, but I really could do with one other person, as she’s not qualified to teach yoga.’

  ‘It’s peak wedding season for me,’ Sennen said, biting her lip. ‘But maybe I could somehow come and help in the summer. Base myself down here for a bit. I mean, it’s probably unrealistic with all the bookings I’ve got, but… I could shuffle things around, work remotely on the admin stuff, and lend a hand where I can. I’d love to be part of it, Mum.’

  Rita could see the cogs whirring in her daughter’s mind. ‘You’ve got your own life, darling. And as much as I adore you and would want you around all the time, I have to do this for me. Actually, we haven’t even talked about you and Alex. What kind of mother am I?’

  ‘A brilliant one. That’s what you are. You bringing me up here this morning, it kind of puts everything into perspective, doesn’t it? This view, the horizon. Who knows what’s beyond it. I need to go home and have a chat with him. He can’t just throw me out on the street. My life is in Reading; I like it there. But I guess I can work from anywhere. I just need some time to fathom stuff. I may just rent a studio flat somewhere and get back on track.’

  ‘You’re being very grown up about it.’ Rita went to her daughter and squeezed her shoulder. ‘And our door is always open.’ She stuttered on the word ‘our’. ‘You know that.’

  Sennen pulled her shoulders back. ‘Mum, nothing can be as bad as Dad dying. He wisely taught me that there is always a solution to everything; the ironic bit is he used to add “except for death”.’

  Sennen’s sentimental statement was lost in the wind.

  As the pair started to walk back down towards the farmhouse, a single gunshot shattered the peaceful morning, causing all kinds of birds to scatter and shriek in fear. The chickens had all run into their coop and the goats were cowering at the back of their winter hay shelter.

  Sennen was wide eyed. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’

  ‘Stan probably just saw a pheasant; your dad used to be the same.’

  They then heard a low monotonous wailing. Rita, now worried herself, started to run towards the chicken coop, Sennen in tow, to find Kelly, in her oversized sunglasses and Rita’s hooded dressing gown, shotgun in hand, shaking all over. Nigel the cockerel lay motionless at her feet.

  ‘I didn’t mean to do it,’ Kelly whined, throwing the gun to the ground in fear.

  ‘What exactly did you mean to do then?’ Rita’s voice rose in anger.

  ‘I just… I thought if I fired out of the window into the sky, he’d shut up. You know, scare him a bit.’

  Sennen crouched down to inspect Nigel. ‘Well, it looks like you’ve definitely scared him… permanently.’ She held back a snort. ‘He’s clearly died of shock.’

  ‘Oh, no, oh no. My hangover was raging, I’d just got back off to sleep, and there he is crowing like he’s auditioning for The Voice: Poultry Edition.’

  ‘He was a cockerel. It’s literally his job,’ Sennen replied matter-of-factly.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly retired now,’ Rita said curtly. ‘But if it helps you to sleep at night, he was nearing the end of his life anyway.’

  ‘I’m a monster.’ Snot was now everywhere on Kelly’s face.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ Sennen replied bluntly.

  They all stared down at the lifeless feathery body.

  ‘You’re not going to report me to the RSPCA, are you? You can if you want. I will deserve everything I get.’ Kelly wiped her face on the arm of Rita’s dressing gown.

  As the hens clucked uncertainly nearby, a lone tear fell down Rita’s cheek as she gently picked up and cradled Nigel’s lifeless, slightly wonky body. ‘We shall bury him in the orchard graveyard next to our dear Buddy.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Kelly wailed again.

  ‘And we must never mention this to anyone,’ Rita added. ‘If anyone asks, our feathery alarm cock died of natural causes.’ Tears began to run down Rita’s face.

  ‘Not by some madwoman with a hangover,’ Sennen added. ‘And Mum, I think it’s time you got rid of that gun.’

  Rita nodded, a little laugh slipping out at the insanity of the situation. ‘What, before she takes out the goat herd too, you mean?’

  FOURTEEN

  Three weeks later, Rita stood in the middle of the barn, a mug of tea going cold in her hand, and breathed a deep ‘breath of peace’ from her stomach, the kind that Zenya had taught her to execute when feeling anxious.

  The impressive old structure had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, walls cleaned of cobwebs, floor swept and mopped three times over, and the smell of mildew and cow poop replaced (mostly) by lemon oil and dried lavender. String lights twinkled along the main beam and a huge rug she’d rescued from the attic and beaten senseless in the garden made for a centrepiece. She’d also found an assortment of scatter cushions in the harbour charity shop. Upturned milk churns, for which she had fashioned a soft seat, provided further seating if required and the old apple crates she had found were now the home for yoga mats, meditation cushions and blankets.

  The hayloft had been sectioned off with a floral curtain that Zenya said looked very boho, although Rita privately thought it looked like a shower curtain from a 1990s caravan, but she wasn’t going to argue aesthetics. Not when she was so close to opening and with the newly cleaned-up and clothes-washed Zenya being the epitome of woo-woo and so perfect for the retreat. She checked her watch. The ever-talented health guru was also cooking her an early dinner and she mustn’t be late.

  Her thoughts were disturbed by the sound of tyres crunching on the gravel. Realising it was the familiar cough of Stan Bodkin’s battered old Land Rover, she tentatively walked outside and, shielding her eyes from the sun, saw him step down from the driver’s seat, his tweed cap pulled low. He walked slowly towards her.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Jory,’ he called out with his strong Cornish accent. ‘You got a minute?’

  She tentatively met him halfway. ‘What’s all this? I’m surprised you’re even talking to me.’

  Stan looked her right in the eye and just the familiarity of having him back on the farm caused a surge of emotion to run through her. Her ex-farmhand was older than Archie, early sixties now, if Rita remembered correctly, with a kind and open face, weathered by a lifetime of hard graft under open skies, eyes lined through squinting beneath the shadow of a battered cap, and his hands, large and calloused. A slight limp from a motorbike accident when he had been a teenager but with the reliability of an ocean tide. Rita had always loved the quiet gentleness of the man in the way he talked to animals and the overwhelming loyalty to Archie and herself that had run deep for over twenty years.

  On hearing his voice, Henry ambled over from his sunbathing slot behind the barn, and they made a fuss of each other.

  Stan gestured to his Land Rover. ‘Come on, the pair of you, get in. I’ve got something for you…’

  Rita frowned, intrigued, and climbed into the car. They sat in silence as they made their bumpy way up to the High Meadow, where he stopped right next to the Singing Tree, Henry sitting upright on the seat as if he were back in one of his rightful places. After opening the door for Rita, Stan went to the back of the vehicle and tugged at the tailgate. With a loud grunt, he slid out a handmade wooden bench, smooth and sturdy, the grain of the oak glowing honey-gold in the morning light. Rita’s heart lurched as she stepped closer. Along the top rail, carefully carved in neat, shallow letters, were the words:

  IN LOVING MEMORY OF ARCHIE JORY – MAY YOU ALWAYS HEAR THE SEA

  Rita brought her hand to her mouth, blinking quickly. She couldn’t stop shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘That noddle of yours’ll fall off in a minute, if you don’t stop doing that,’ Stan said matter-of-factly. ‘I had some offcuts in the barn up there.’ Stan gestured towards Hawthorn Acre. ‘Figured the old sod might like to rest up here. He quite often used to sit here with a flask of tea and a scowl, in times of trouble.’